


The Memory Jar

by HiddlesBatchBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon, Children, Comedy, HiddlesBatchBakerStreet, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddlesBatchBakerStreet/pseuds/HiddlesBatchBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been faced with many things, but babysitting John Watson's toddler, Rosie? That's a job for real parents - Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Memory Jar

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my HiddlesBatchBakerStreet followers on Instagram for supporting me with my work! I hope you like it...

"Sherlock?" John knocked lightly on the door of his old flat at 221B Baker Street, tightly holding the hand of a small sticky child. "Sherlock, you in there?"  
A few seconds of silence passed, and the doctor was just about to start up his knocking and shouting once again when the latch at the other side of the door make a clicking sound. Sherlock Holmes, wearing his typical black day-suit, swung the door open, struggling to hide the look of sheer delight at the sight of his good friend, whom he had not seen for at least a week and had begun to miss the company of.  
However, the consulting detective's face quickly fell when his gaze fell upon the young infant clinging desperately to John Watson's hand, its eyes large and green like Mary's. His body grew ridged with awkwardness and, subconsciously, he pulled himself taller, back straighter, as if an improvement in his posture would somehow make the child release its grip from John.

"Sherlock," John greeted his nervous friend cheerfully. "Hi, how are you? Can we come in?"

We. Sherlock thought. Plural. More than one person. Someone who isn't John. Not ‘I’ - but ‘we’. Sherlock tilted his chin slightly upwards, looking down at the child; around sixteen to eighteen months of age, quite a lot of hair for a child so young with a nose very similar to John's. The young child didn't appear to know how to speak yet. Not to mention, fairly shy. 

"This is your home too, John. You don't have to ask permission from me to enter it." Sherlock said calmly, taking in the resemblance that the infant held to John. He didn't like it.  
John sighed and looked down at his shoes. "You know this isn't my home anymore, Sherlock. My home is with Mary and Rosie."

So that's what the moppet was named.

"Anyway," John continued, clearing his throat. "Are we able to come in?"

"Certainly..." Sherlock stepped back, allowing the two to pass through the door and into the rather messy London living room.   
Experiments were littered about the room, alongside half used binders and folders which had been thrown down to the floor in a heated frustration. Mugs with coffee stains and spoons still in them were to be seen in the strangest of places; the back of the sofa; next to the skull supplied from the morgue by Molly; even balanced dangerously high on the top of a stack of alchemy books.  
John knew the signs. Sherlock wasn't coping very well on his own and, at this rate, he would no doubt forget to eat as he always used to do and would end up collapsing at a murder scene. Shaking his head, the doctor strode over to the fridge to open a pint of milk for Rosie to sup.

"CHRIST!" John yelled, jumping backwards in a comical manner from the open fridge. "Sherlock! Why is there a HEAD in the fridge?"  
Sherlock glanced innocently over to John from where he was still stood in the doorway, running details from his current murder case through his so-called ‘Mind Palace’ or, as John preferred to call it, his ‘Memory Jar’.

"John, I always have an experiment of some sort in the fridge."

"Yeah, but a decapitated head?" John stressed.

"Yes. A decapitated head. But it's okay John," Sherlock reassured, still deep in his thoughts. "The head belonged to a pedophile and, yes, he was already dead when I found him."

John's face turned pale, very pale; practically white. Gripping hold of the Formica, the dizzied doctor steadied himself before slowly closing the plastic door before Rosie had the chance to see the remains. "Got any milk, then...?" John pushed the graphic image that tried to refuse to budge from his mind aside, and focused his weary eyes back on Sherlock.

"Cupboard."

Frowning, John searched the kitchen cupboards until he found a half empty (or half full) carton of milk. It was crumpled, and had a pinprick of a hole at the base, with dribbles of soured milk leaking from it. Not only had his ex-flatmate failed to put dairy in the fridge, but he had also let the mice at it! They always had had a problem with the mice.  
Closing the cupboard, John looked pitifully down at little Rosie, who had plonked herself down on the floor and was beginning to play with a lens cap from one of Sherlock's many microscopes.   
Crouching down, daddy John scooped Rosie into his arms and gently prised the cap from her small fingers. Setting aside the cap, John walked back over to Sherlock at the door.

"Sherlock, I-" John began, but his phone buzzed impatiently. Work call. Passing Rosie over to Sherlock, who looked mortified at having a young human being thrust into his hold, John pulled out his phone and hit ‘accept’.

"Doctor Watson. Yes. Oh, well I'm in Baker Street now...?" John pressed his thumb and forefinger to the top of his nose. "Right. Okay. I'm on my way." Closing the phone, he looked back up at Sherlock, who was holding Rosie away from his suit at an uncomfortable angle.

"Sherlock, I have to go."

"Oh," the consulting detective seemed blue that John had to leave so soon, but also rather relieved that Rosie would be away from him. "Erm, here. Take her. She's...here." Sherlock pushed Rosie into John's chest, but John didn't take her. Instead, he held his hands in the air in a surrendering pose.

"It's a work call," John said apologetically. "Sherlock, I know it's a lot to ask, but could you maybe...maybe keep an eye in her for me? Just for a couple of hours. You did so well with that boy before the wedding."

Sherlock remembers his first time babysitting vividly; he'd shown the boy images of his latest murder case - he had seemed fascinated. Somehow, though, he felt that a toddler like Rosie wouldn't be able to appreciate the beauty of death like that boy had. He'd found the maggots particularly entertaining.   
Sherlock looked hard into John's eyes, trying to deduce whether or not this was some kind of joke. But he found no hidden sparkle in John's eyes, just a desperate plea.

"Okay." Sherlock confirmed, pulling Rosie away from John and putting her down on the floor, where she began untying and tangling his shoelaces. "You have two hours."

"Thank you so much Sherlock, I owe you." John gushed, and gave Rosie a quick kiss on the cheek and Sherlock a pat on the shoulder before dashing down the stairs and out into the busy streets of London.

* * * *

Sherlock stared at little Rosie, and he scuffed his shoe on the floorboard as a feeble attempt at pulling the laces apart from their knots. He glared at her features; she was just like John, Mary too. Her hair was the same colour as Mary's, but the same texture as John's. Sherlock missed the scent of his doctor's fruity shampoo drifting about the flat.  
Hurrying over to his desk, pushing files away in the process, Sherlock grabbed his mobile and texted both Mycroft and Lestrade. He knew he needn't text them both, because they would both arrive together even if he just sent the message to one of them. That was just like them, always together.

Just like Sherlock used to always be with John.

‘221B, now. Emergency. SH.’ 

Resting his phone lightly on the desk, Sherlock turned around to make sure that Rosie Watson wasn't getting herself into trouble.   
The consulting detective jumped slightly as he turned to find little Rosie stood right in front of him, staring up at him with those big green eyes of hers. 

"Right," Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath. "Your babysitters will arrive shortly."

He was right, for barely ten minutes had passed before the familiar racing of two pairs of heavy footsteps came crashing up the staircase. 

"Is he in there?" Lestrade's worried voice sounded distant from the other side of the door.

"Just go in," ushered Mycroft.

The door knob twisted and in came two pink-cheeked men, smartly dressed, accompanied by an umbrella even though there was no rainfall outside. Mycroft was ever so slightly doubled over, panting, leaning on his umbrella for support. Greg Lestrade had his hand resting on Mycroft's back, rubbing soothing circles as he scanned the room for any hazardous signs. But his eyes were simply met with Sherlock stood in the centre of the living room, a child at his feet.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's confused voice filled the room. Sherlock would treasure this moment and, of course, would tease him for it later when he was being annoyingly stupid.

"Good morning Graham." Sherlock greeted.

"It's Greg..."

"Yes, of course," the corner of Sherlock's mouth almost twitched into a smile. "I need you two to look after John's miniature procreation."

Mycroft, who had now gathered his breath back, straighten up and looked his brother in the eye. "You called us here to look after a ‘miniature procreation’?"

Sherlock smiled, fully this time. "You were always so great at playing deductions as a child, Mycroft."

The two men stood still before Sherlock, not knowing what to do. 

"I could go get Joshua's formula...?" Lestrade suggested, suddenly going into parent-mode.

"I always carry some with me, it's here." Mycroft pulled out a powdered milk sachet from his waistcoat pocket, denying all eye contact with Sherlock as he knew that he would see only a smug grin. "Go heat some water, Greg."  
Taking the sachet, Lestrade hurried to the kitchen and set the kettle on it's stand and began to boil the water for Rosie's bottle.

Sherlock watched Mycroft as he shifted his weight anxiously. His brother was sensitive around the subject of children, yet he seemed to know all there is to know about them.

"How's Joshua?" Sherlock mused.

"Missing his uncle." 

Sherlock rocket back on his heels, folding his arms and tilting his head slightly to the right as he made an attempt to read his brother's current emotion like a bothersome book.

"I don't like children." Sherlock simply stated. "When he's older, more intellectual, I'll visit more."

Mycroft sighed heavily, glancing over his shoulder at Greg who was now mixing the formula and pouring it into a bottle. "Just come and see him soon," he paused. "For Greg and I."

* * * *

Greg had called Rosie over, and she was perched happily on his knee drinking from the bottle. She was only sixteen, maybe seventeen months old, but she still enjoyed a bottle and that was the only clean drinking container that they had in the flat.  
Sherlock had taken out his violin and was playing a composition of his own in pizzicato by the window. Mycroft was watching Greg with Rosie, thinking of Joshua at home with Naaila, their house keeper and nanny. She would probably be teaching him how to speak basic words and copy simple sounds - she was a fantastic nanny, was Naaila.  
Rosie gulped down the last of her milk, and Greg burped her. Then, from the silence of the room, came a young voice.

"Sherl."

The three men stopped what they were doing and stared at Rosie.

"Sh...Sherly."

"Dear God," Sherlock grumbled. "The first thing she-"

"Shut up!" Mycroft scolded, batting a hand at his brother before crouching down next to Rosie. "Hey, is that Sherlock?" He pointed backwards to his brother, who was frowning at the child. Why was Mycroft encouraging the child to speak? Babysitting should be peaceful - not full of children talking nonsense.

"Sher...look...Sher...lo."

"When is John coming home?" Sherlock snapped, tired of the child failing to sound his name correctly.

"John doesn't live here anymore, dear brother mine." Mycroft pointed out. "Now shut up and listen."

For half an hour, Mycroft and Lestrade tried to coax little Rosie to say Sherlock's name. Bribing her with small chocolate buttons found in Lestrade's wallet that were broken up into little pieces, they gave her a small chunk every time she got a syllable from Sherlock's name right.  
They looked like an almost-classic family; mummy and daddy feeding baby, while the older brother sulks in the corner, pining his parents' attention.

Sherlock was just about to give up on his attempted child care mission, when his mobile buzzed from the desk. Stalking over to it, he picked it up and read the text that flashed up on the screen:

‘Almost home. Hope Rosie's been a good girl! John.’

Sherlock let out a lofty sigh of relief, and looked down into the street below from the window pane. There he was, John Watson, dressed smart and carrying his briefcase and heading to the door of 221B Baker Street just like old times.  
He paused, and looking down once more at the phone mentally noted that John had referred to the flat as ‘home’.

"Home." He muttered to himself, as John pushed the door of the flat open.

"You alright, Sherlock?" John beamed, "ah, hello Mycroft, Lestrade. Is Rosie behaving well? Sorry for taking so long."

"Our pleasure." Lestrade answered, standing up and picking Rosie up with him.

The three stood chatting, with Sherlock stood as an on-looker. Then, when John took Rosie from Lestrade's arms to leave, Rosie pointed her chubby finger at Sherlock.

"Do you want Sherlock?" John laughed, passing Rosie over to Sherlock.

It was like pass-the-parcel, only with a toddler.

This time, willingly, Sherlock embraced the child. "Goodbye, young John foetus." Rosie giggled, and pulled at his dark curls. Trying not to wince too much, Sherlock in return gave a nervous laugh.

"Sherlock!" Rosie chirped.

John stopped.

Mycroft and Lestrade both froze.

Sherlock? Well, he simply grinned like a Cheshire Cat. 

"That's right, that's me." He smiled, nuzzling the top of Rosie's head with his nose. "I'm Sherlock."

"Her first word," John said. "You should keep this day in that Memory Jar of yours!"

 

And he did.

* * * *

~April 14th, 2014~

Sherlock rapped on the slick black door that was Mycroft and Lestrade's house. John was stood beside him, Rosie balanced on his hip.   
The door opened to an exhausted looking Greg.

"Sherlock? John?" He mumbled. "What are you guys doing here?" He was still in his dressing gown and his hair was messily ruffled.

Then, from the bottom of the stairs, a young boy appeared.

"Uncle Sherlock?"

Sherlock crouched down on the porch, his arms stretched wide open and watched, his expression full of joy, as the boy ran into his chest. He lost his balance, and toppled backwards, hugging his nephew, Joshua.

* * * *

~The End~

**Author's Note:**

> This work is completed, and no additional chapters or parts shall be added. However, if you liked this fanfic, you can subscribe to me as an author and follow me on Instagram @HiddlesBatchBakerStreet along with my other fantabulous followers for fanart, fanvideos, shoutouts and more!  
> -HiddlesBatchBakerStreet-


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